Damien and Jenna found nothing else in the village's gutted remains. Their total haul amounted to two bottles of water, a single loaf of bread sealed in suspiciously fresh plastic, and the matching daggers they'd discovered earlier. That was it.
Night had fallen hard over the desert, the heat vanishing as if the sun had taken it with it. The sky stretched overhead in a black expanse dusted with pinprick stars, blinking faintly like dying signals. The wind had turned bitter, each gust slicing across Damien's skin with the sharpness of glass. He wished—truly, deeply wished—he had his black jacket.
To the east, a massive white beacon pulsed in the dark sky—bright, sterile, unblinking for a few seconds, then gone again, as if blinking in slow, mechanical intervals. A signal to all Hellbound that the gate loomed out of reach.
Damien sat hunched in the cold sand, just outside a roughly reconstructed tent pitched a little beyond the destroyed camp. The grey monk and Jenna slept inside, their bodies casting quiet silhouettes against the canvas walls.
He could hear Jenna's faint breathing—soft, but slightly uneven, like someone trying to breathe silently in their sleep. The monk didn't make a sound.
Damien shivered violently, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, trying to conserve what little warmth remained in his blood. The cold had crept into his bones.
Still, he kept watch.
He wasn't about to sleep beside two strangers just because they hadn't stabbed him yet—even if one was a twig, and the other a monk. Damien wasn't ready to trust either.
Besides, this was Hell—a trial. Monsters could show up. Worse, maybe.
As his eyes scanned the horizon for signs of movement, his thoughts turned inward—back to the village, the wreckage, and the strangely limited supplies.
'That village was placed there on purpose—a setup for scavenging. The purple-haired girl, myself, Jenna, and the monk—we all went there looking for food, water, shelter. A temporary haven. He narrowed his eyes. If I hadn't led monsters straight to it, I bet more people would've shown up. So why was there barely anything to find?'
A sudden gust slammed into him, cold enough to make his ribs ache. Damien's jaw clenched as his teeth chattered. He could barely feel his fingers.
But his mind stayed razor-sharp.
Let's say three more people had made it to the village. Seven total. Would we have split a single loaf of bread and two water bottles between all of us?
He scoffed.
No. That's ridiculous, impossible even.
And then it hit him.
His eyes widened from realization, breath steaming from his mouth in small, frantic puffs.
'But that's the trial.'
'It's about what you do when survival depends on choosing between yourself and others.'
He let out a hollow laugh, barely more than a breath.
"Unlucky for me," he murmured. "Every lie I've ever told… every move I make… It's all rooted in greed. Self-preservation. I might be the least selfless person in this damn desert."
The cold bit deeper. He tucked his hands beneath his armpits, closing his eyes against the sting of the wind.
'I have no chance at gaining the virtue of Selflessness.'
A silence stretched. Only the whisper of the wind and the steady blinking of the white beacon broke it.
Then a long sigh slipped from his lips.
'Really, none of us has a chance. No one here's trying to be noble. Everyone wants to survive… and you can't be selfless when you're starving.'
He grinned. 'Better get ready for that Greed shackle.'
Then he stared off into the night sky, letting his thoughts wander more and more.
..
After a night of bone-deep cold that gnawed at his muscles and left his joints stiff as rusted hinges, the sun finally rose, merciless and bright. The shift from freezing to blistering heat was instant, like being dropped from an ice bath into boiling oil. Now Damien was drenched in sweat, the desert heat pressing down on him like a smothering, invisible hand.
Inside the tent, Jenna and the grey monk had woken on their own. Damien had heard them stirring, but didn't bother going in. Moments later, Jenna burst from the tent with an exaggerated yawn, stretching her arms toward the sky like she'd just finished a peaceful nap in paradise.
Damien's eye twitched.
Everything the girl did pissed him off: the way she talked, the way she moved, the way she existed.
But then something unexpected happened—the monk spoke.
His voice was quiet but firm, rough from disuse. "East. Three days."
Damien blinked. It was the first time the man had spoken a word, and hearing it was oddly jarring like hearing a statue recite a prayer.
Still, with no objections raised, the trio began walking east.
Although Damien was confused. 'Three days?'
The monk's words didn't add up. The gate was weeks away—he could still see its distant pulse on the horizon, far beyond reach.
So what the hell was supposed to happen in three days? He didn't ask. The monk didn't elaborate, and Jenna was too busy talking to care. So Damien kept walking, the question gnawing quietly at the back of his mind like a splinter.
The desert offered no mercy.
The sun glared down like a punishment from the gods. Their boots sank into shifting sands with every step, the scorched terrain radiating heat that rose in visible waves. Jenna walked beside the monk, the collapsed tent slung over his broad shoulder. She chattered non-stop, her voice somehow louder than the wind and far more irritating.
"Hey," she chirped, her hands resting lazily behind her head. " What did you do to end up in Hell, anyway?"
Damien said nothing.
Instead, he uncapped one of the two water bottles and took the tiniest sip—barely enough to wet his tongue. Rationing was crucial. He could feel his greed scratching at the inside of his chest, a beast waiting to pounce. Even hydration had to be calculated here.
His lips were already dry and starting to crack. A dull ache had settled behind his eyes, and his head felt just a touch too heavy on his shoulders—early signs, he realized, of dehydration beginning to dig in. It wasn't urgent yet, but it was there, gnawing at the edges of his awareness like the start of a fever.
He'd hoped ignoring her would silence her.
He was wrong.
"Look," Jenna went on, "if you're gonna travel with us, I deserve to know a few things. For all I know, you could be some psycho rapist trying to get in my pants."
Damien's patience finally snapped. 'Every time she talks, it's like a shotgun blasts my eardrums.'
He stopped and turned to her, his voice flat and freezing. "No one wants to rape you, stick. So shut up before I kill you."
There was no heat behind his words, just exhaustion.
His shackle didn't activate, which meant he wasn't lying.
Jenna, to his surprise, didn't flinch. She didn't look angry or scared. She just laughed—short and sharp, her grin like a blade.
"So, you're a murderer then," she said, tilting her head. "That's why you're in Hell?"
Damien didn't want to answer. But her voice had burrowed so deep into his skull, he couldn't help himself.
"No," he said coldly. "I raped people."
Pain exploded through him.
The shackle around his soul reacted immediately, coiling like barbed wire, crushing his ribs, stabbing into his spine. Agony, unlike anything he'd felt on Earth. His knees buckled slightly, but he forced himself to stay upright, jaw locked, eyes forward.
'Still better than listening to her.'
Another thought pressed into Damien's skull like a spike. 'If my deception backfired… could I believe I was a rapist? And if I thought it, would I eventually become one?'
The idea that a part of him could be changed unknowingly chilled him. He made a mental note: he'd need to wield his deception far more carefully.
Jenna stopped walking.
She didn't laugh this time. She didn't speak.
The air grew heavier.
From that point forward, the three walked silently, the desert swallowing their footsteps. Only the wind accompanied them now.
'Thank the gods,' Damien thought.